


Play the Whistle

by saltstreets



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Referees, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 15:21:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10947255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets/pseuds/saltstreets
Summary: Those who can't do, teach. Or rather, referee. Despite not quite making it through the Liverpool academy, Jamie Carragher is at the top level of the game in his own way, which would all be well and splendid if not for a certain disagreeable colleague.





	Play the Whistle

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started out as me scribbling notes over breakfast and trying not to think about the massive pile-up of essays, exchange fic, and exams I had to do, and then before I could stop myself I had about twenty pages in longhand and it came out to this behemoth. So- referees AU! Inspired in part by the [little special on Sky](https://ok.ru/video/255516216032) that Jamie and Gary did. And with bonus appearances from Jack Whitehall and Jamie Redknapp as inept podcasters! Because look, it’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to. Just accept that they are a part of this universe.
> 
> A zillion thanks to [redandgold](http://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold) for assuring me that this was readable. 'Spot the Paul Scholes' included just for you, love <33

 

 

In many ways, all of Jamie’s problems could be laid firmly at the feet of Steven Gerrard.

From the very beginning, Stevie had season tickets for the football, which was an excellent thing to have, save for the fact that Jamie’s family tended to lean toward the blue side of the city, and Stevie’s tickets were quite unmistakably red.

So Jamie grew up at Anfield, listening to Stevie’s clamorous dreams of playing for Liverpool.

That was the second blame that Stevie would have to shoulder when Jamie decided to cash in. Jamie had also wanted to be a footballer- of course he had, who didn’t, as a kid? But because every kid wanted to be a footballer, there needed to be an effective measure to ensure that every kid _didn’t_ become a footballer, therefore bringing about the end of all non-football civilisation and the collapse of functional human society on the planet. Luckily for human society, such a measure did, in fact, exist. Less luckily for Jamie, said measure came in the form of club trials, and in the course of these trials he became one of those many, many children spared from the all-consuming maw of football for the greater good of human civilisation as it was known.

Jamie got the sense that his father was somewhat relieved. Jamie going to Anfield every other weekend and switching from the Everton academy was bad enough: Carragher the Elder may well have given up the ghost entirely had his own flesh and blood been actually picked up by the red right hand of Liverpool FC.

Stevie was not relieved. Stevie was, in a word, outraged. Even more so than Jamie. Jamie was disappointed, to be sure, but he was already older enough than Stevie to come around to the fact that too slow was too slow, and football was always a bit of a pipe dream anyway. But Stevie was determined that Jamie had been seriously wronged. “Are you going to go for another trial?” he would ask at least once a week, for months on end until finally accepting that Jamie was not, in fact, going to go for another trial.

Which didn’t mean that Jamie was then left in relative peace. Stevie’s youth career was going off with a bang, and Stevie was nothing if not determined that he and Jamie were going to enter the football world as a tour de force double act, no matter what the method.

Jamie had nodded along to Stevie’s grand designs and continued muddling over his inevitable, more realistic future while Stevie steadily clambered up the ranks in the academy to the U-18s, to first team training, and finally, to the bench.

Jamie was in the Kop the day that Stevie made his first team debut at eighteen. Jamie was twenty and working on a journalism degree that he was enjoying but worried about. But, he thought as he watched Stevie win the ball on the wing to the roaring approval of the Kop, he could always do a sports column and fill it with exclusive interviews with Liverpool’s Steven Gerrard.

As usual, Stevie had other plans. Grander plans.

“Carra!” He rung Jamie up not two days after his debut, “I’ve had an idea, like.”

“What’s this now,” Jamie asked, cautious after many years’ experience of Stevie’s ideas.

“Refereeing!” announced Stevie as though he’d solved some complex mathematical equation.

“How’s that?”

“Refereeing, Carra! You can become a referee!”

“Why would I want to become a referee?” asked Jamie, utterly nonplussed. “What are you on about?”

“ _Football_ ,” said Stevie impatiently, as if Jamie was the one not making sense. “I’m talking about football.”

Stevie had somehow managed to get it into his head that Jamie ought to become a referee. “At least think about it,” he said, wheedling. “You’d be on the pitch, and get to shout everyone around, which I know you like. Listen, I did some phoning and there’s a sort of beginners’ interest session or something being put on by the FA next month. It’s even here in Liverpool. You’d just have to walk down the street, almost.”

Jamie did have to admit that he was rather touched that Stevie had gone to the trouble of phoning about locating such an event, and so he had allowed himself to be badgered into attending. The way he had seen it, it was a win-win. Stevie was happy, and if it did seem like something he’d be interested in, Jamie could earn a badge to become a junior referee and pick up some pocket money officiating the school games at the local comprehensive.

All of which lead to the third problem that Jamie was going to blame Stevie for: namely, the scrawny, black-haired kid with a crooked nose who was currently scowling at Jamie from across the room.

There were about twenty other people in attendance at the information session, of a variety of ages and shapes, and out of all of them, Jamie hated this one very nearly on sight. He had a pinched look about him, like everything that the light touched had personally offended him.

But perhaps to say ‘on sight’ and leave it at that would be to misrepresent the situation somewhat. It was more accurately on hearing.

“Can’t believe we’ve had to come all the way to Liverpool for this,” the black-haired kid had being saying to the gingery boy next to him as Jamie’d entered the room. He wasn’t really a kid, probably more or less Jamie’s own age, but to call him a man, Jamie thought furiously, would be to show him a level of respect that he quite frankly had not and never would earn. “Would have made more sense to do it in Manchester, and not just ‘cause it’d be more convenient.” There had been a distinct tone of incredulity laced in the name of _Liverpool_ that, paired with the wrinkling of that crooked nose, had had Jamie’s hackles up immediately.

“You’ve come from Manchester?” He’d said, loudly, “no wonder you had to travel. A refereeing programme in a footballing backwater like _Manchester_? Not likely.”

That had been the extent of their verbal interaction, as the speaker had entered. But it had been more than enough to establish a framework of disgust, and everything subsequently exchanged had been in the form of glares and silent promises of violent death by murder, coming soon in the future.

Jamie’s hatred had only grown over the course of the next hour. Every time the nameless-yet-no-less-despised enemy made a remark or asked a question, Jamie could only think of how terribly irritating he was. Every word that he spoke was unnecessary, and the way he absently tapped his pen against his thigh was downright maddening.

At the end of the session a sheet was sent around for the addresses of anyone interested in being posted further information about training and the modules required to earn a badge, and Jamie found, slightly to his surprise, that he was genuinely interested. It seemed that Stevie did know a thing or two about his character after all. Jamie was interested in becoming a referee. He knew he would enjoy it.

He also knew, and he had watched carefully to count on which line the name would be written, that he hated Gary Neville. Not, he supposed at the time, that it would matter very much. The session was over and with one last poisonous glance Neville would be on his way back to Manchester, and Jamie could go ring up Stevie and never have to see that pointy, objectionable face ever again.

 

\--

 

So from the beginning it was Stevie’s fault. But not entirely a negative fault, since once he’s gotten his Junior license the entire thing had taken on a life of its own, until it found Jamie going round to Stevie’s to tell him once he’d made the decision, the _big_ decision, because Stevie was always the first one he told things like this.

“I’m going to do the final module. For level one.”

Stevie’s eyes lit up. “Carra! That’s brilliant!” He had always been firmly in favour of Jamie going full professional referee. In that he had been steadily unmoving for the past five or so years since Jamie had admitted that the refereeing thing wasn’t so mad as he’d initially thought. Jamie had been _good_ at it too, was still good at it, and five years in the Conference North was beginning to scratch a bit. The salary was a nice incentive as well.

“At least in the Third Division I might get fewer tins of fish thrown at me,” said Jamie, joking but also internally wincing at the memory of the incident, which had happened in Barrow and had left a lump the size of a billiard ball on his head.

“Third Division? Mate, I expect to see you up in the Prem within the year.”

Jamie laughed. “Yeah, alright. Do you even know how many hours I’m going to have to put in in the Third and Second Divisions just to make it up to the First?”

“Absolutely no idea,” said Stevie cheerfully. “But _you_ know, and that’s why you’re the official and I’m just the bloke who kicks the ball. Tell me.”

“Let’s just say If you ever see me in the Prem it’ll be for your farewell match and I’ll have lost all my hair.”

“Yeah, alright. But you’re a brilliant ref, Carra. Once you get that level one badge the FA will be falling over themselves to get you up the ladder, trust me. Where do you have to go for the training?”

 “That’s the only downside.” He made a face. “It’s in Manchester. I’ll have to make the drive down.”

Stevie made a sympathetic noise. “Bad luck. I’d offer to drive down with you for company, but...”

“You’re likely to get jumped by a load of angry Mancs the minute you show your face within the city limits?”

“I was going to say, but I can’t fucking stand Manchester. But that too.”

 

\--

 

It had been several years but Jamie recognised him the instant he entered the room. And, if the look of surprise rapidly turning into a sneer was anything to go by, Gary Neville also recognised him.

 _Gary Neville._ Jamie wasn’t even surprised that he could recall the name immediately. He hated Gary Neville.

“What a shock seeing you here in this _footballing backwater._ ” Neville’s voice was venom and Jamie was viciously gratified at the way he spoke, as though their last exchange had only been a week ago rather than a matter of years. He hoped Neville had lost sleep over that remark.

He curled his lip. “Oh, believe me; I’m not happy about it. But that just shows you the state of the FA, doesn’t it, Neville?”

Jamie enjoyed the brief flash of startled confusion on Neville’s face at the fact that Jamie knew his name, before he smoothed his expression once again. It was nice having the upper hand, if only for a bit. Gary Neville would know his name soon enough. Of that Jamie was quite fucking certain.

 

\--

 

“Good evening ladies, gents! Or good whatever time of day or night you’re experiencing, but it’s evening for me so that’s what I’m sticking with. Welcome to episode hundred-somethingth of Out of Your League, the football podcast that you would probably swipe left for. I’m Jack Whitehall and I’m joined by, usually doing the intro but at the moment eating a toffee and unable to speak, Jamie Redknapp!”

“...’ullo.”

“I told him I was going to start recording and he goes and does this. It’s unprofessional, is what it is.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re usually sooo on top of things. Hi everyone. Sorry you had to hear Jack’s voice there when I’m sure you were all expecting me, nasty shock. But don’t worry, as usual I will be giving you actual information and you’ll only have to deal with Jack when he wants to try to make a joke. What was that swiping left thing even supposed to _mean_?”

“Oh my god- _Tinder,_ Jamie. It’s a joke about Tinder.”

“The dating thingy? Don’t give me that look; I’m in a very happy relationship already, thank you. How should I know about dating apps?”

“See, this is why you need me around. You’re completely unrelatable to the youth.”

 

\--

 

“Okay Jack. It’s more or less agreed that the two best referees in the Prem at the moment are-”

“Keys and Gray.”

“God, shut _up_. What a terrible thing to even joke about. No, obviously not Keys and Gray. English football may be a state but it’s not _that_ far gone. No, that’ll be Jamie Carragher and Gary Neville.”

“And that’s not just biased because you and Carragher have the same first name?”

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up literally thirty seconds ago?”

“It’s a podcast, Redders, it’s exclusively an audio feature. And no one wants to like, just hear you prattle on for an hour.”

“No one wants to hear anything for an hour. That’s why this show is only forty minutes long.”

“...”

“Why did you pause? I thought you didn’t want to shut up. You changed your mind?”

“No, I just wanted a gap so Freddie could edit in like, a cymbal clash or something. That was a good joke.”

“Freddie does enough work not going mad every week editing the levels out of your horrible prepubescent voice, Whitehall. He’s not going to put in a cymbal clash.”

“Wow, prepubescent. Pretty polysyllabic of you, Jamie. Where’d you learn that, off your medical chart? Under the heading, ‘mentality’?”

“Yeah, well not all of us were privately educated. Now tell the listeners something about football. Or at least, tell the remaining listeners who haven’t already thrown their laptops out the window.”

“I forget what we were talking about. Ow!”

“That was the sound of Jack Whitehall getting a smack. You’re welcome, ladies and gentlemen. Freddie, up the sound on that so the people can hear it.”

“Ugh, you’re an arsehole, Redders.”

“Yes, and I was talking about Jamie Carragher and Gary Neville, England’s finest sons. For those of you who see the referee as a nameless pillar to shout at, take our word for it that Carragher and Neville are very, very good at what they do. They’ve both been around for a while, and I actually think both of them did a lot of junior refereeing as students, so they’ve got buckets of experience.”

“Man, what kind of messed up kid do you have to be to have been on the ref track since being a student? Not having a club, having to be all impartial...”

“Well, Jack, that’s actually just the point I’ve been trying to get to for the past five minutes. Recently, both Carragher and Neville have been accused of being biased due to club support. I mean, I say accused in the loosest sense- it’s just a bunch of fans and they have a Twitter hashtag or something, so not exactly forensic science, here. But I’m bringing it up because the evidence that they do have is actually pretty interesting. Apparently, Carragher’s best mate is literally Steven Gerrard, and Carragher was seen at Gerrard’s birthday bash in Liverpool last month. Someone on Reddit also combed through a load of old photos and found one from 2005 showing Carragher in a crowd of Liverpool supporters losing their minds at Istanbul.”

“If you haven’t seen that photo, by the way, check it out because it is _amazing._ We’ll put a link to it in the section below. A flippin’ hilarious photo. Carragher looks like he’s about to start crowd-surfing.”

“So Jamie Carragher supports Liverpool. At the very least he did in 2005, which was ages ago, and he wasn’t even a Premier League ref at the time, but still in the old First Division, which is now, of course, the Championship. And he’s friends with Stevie G. Big deal! Carragher has never actually officiated a Liverpool match because, shockingly enough, the FA actually looks for that sort of thing when they assign matches. And Carragher has never been accused of bias before, even though I’m fairly sure we’ve known he and Gerrard are mates for some time.”

“Yeah, we talked about it on this show before. They’re best mates! I think it’s lovely.”

“So why the fuss now?”

“Why the fuss, you ask? Why, please allow me to enlighten you, Redders.”

“How kind of you to offer.”

“So, like, like most things in football, these claims of bias are an act of revenge. If you cast your minds back, remember a few weeks ago we mentioned that some former Manchester United players are investing in development and setting up a hotel or something? Well, guess who happens to have a sort of hobby in real estate. Yup, it’s Gary Neville. Why anyone would have real estate as a hobby, I have no idea, but the man’s also a referee so I suppose we already know he’s weird. Neville is apparently handling the business for our friends in the north Becks and Giggs and the rest of them Mancy Mancs, and so some Liverpool fans, not, apparently pleased with how Neville officiated the Arsenal-Swansea match a few weeks ago, went on a conspiracy trip about how Neville got the win for Arsenal to put them back above Liverpool, because he hates Liverpool, because he supports Man United. By the way, if that’s true? Thanks, Gary. Get fucked, Liverpool.”

“Unnecessary editorialising, Jack. Also fuck you. We still have a game in hand.”

“Yeah, okay, tell yourself that so you can sleep at night, Redders. Anyway, is there anything in this Neville and Carragher thing?”

“Nah. Like I said, they’re both excellent refs, and I highly doubt that some tits on the internet-”

“-ha, tits on the internet, I’ve seen loads of them-”

“-have really spotted a massive refereeing conspiracy, shut up Jack, that the FA have somehow missed completely. Two refs who live in Liverpool and Manchester support Liverpool and Manchester, more news at eleven. Not exactly Sherlock Holmes, is it?”

“Well, there you go. Debunked, like. Take off the tinfoil hats and we can all go home.”

“But you know what, Jack, now we _do_ know why Carragher and Neville don’t like each other.”

“Oh! I’d forgotten about that. We discussed this before- there were those photos from the, the what? Charity dinner or something? And there were those really amazing photos of Carragher and Neville looking absolute _daggers_ at each other when the other wasn’t looking. If you haven’t seen them, deffo go look them up. Comedy gold.”

“Did you just say _deffo_? Get the fuck off my podcast.”

“You get the fuck off _my_ podcast! Ow! Redders!”

“Again, listeners, the sound of Jack Whitehall getting smacked. That’s us for today, go do something useful with your lives. Bye!”

“Freddie don’t forget the cymbals! Bye- ow!”

 

\--

 

“Okay, a bit of a throwback coming at you. Do you remember a few months ago, there was that whole thing about Liverpool and Man United supporters up in arms about Jamie Carragher and Gary Neville ruining their lives?”

“Banter, that. Go on.”

“Okay so, I don’t know if you’ve seen this, but Barry Glendenning was at the Referees’ Association Dinner and he’s tweeted something absolutely brilliant to that point: he says, “The real rivalry on the pitch: Carragher and Neville compete for the most correct decisions in a season”.”

“Is that true?”

“Listen, Redders, if it’s not true I don’t want to know. It’s the best thing in football that I have heard, ever.”

“So they- what? Keep tally or something?”

“No clue. People were asking for the _deets_ in the replies but Glendenning says all he knows is they compete somehow.”

“Where’s this coming from, the secret referee? I love these two, honest. They have a proper supporters’ rivalry, and now also a nerdy ref rivalry. Class.”

“I love it too. I’m going to start just watching them when they’re on and try to keep track of the decisions.”

“You should be watching for that anyway, Jack, we have a _football podcast_. That’s the sort of thing we need to notice and discuss.”

“Yeah, I _guess_.”

“You guess. This is why I’m the host and you’re just colour commentary.”

 

\--

 

“Referees! Referees, referees. We should just make a permanent referee feature, at this point. Sky has got in on the fun, and made a mention of the fierce and vicious contest between Jamie Carragher and Gary Neville to see who can get the most correct refereeing decisions. Of course this lead to about a hundred angry Liverpool supporters phoning in with their long-held complaints that Neville is going to royally bugger all them when he officiates their match this weekend.”

“It’s just complaining, Redders. Neville’s a professional. Even if he does hate Liverpool, and on this show we choose to believe that he does, because it’s hilarious, it’d be too risky for him to do anything.”

“’Cause of video replay and FA sanctions and that?”

“No, because Carragher has been assigned the Manchester Derby in a few weeks and he’d immediately take revenge.”

“It’s all intrigue these days. Though now some people are saying that coverage of a _refereeing rivalry_ is final proof that modern football has gone too far.”

“Well, Sky will do anything to fill the minutes, Redders.”

“Yeah and so, apparently, will we.”

 

\--

 

“On that note, time to wrap up the show. Oh, final note- for anyone not sick to death of the Great Ref Saga -though we really haven’t mentioned it in months- our favourite enemies on the pitch Carragher and Neville have been assigned a match together. Neville is the ref and Carragher is one of the assistants, so tune into West Brom versus Stoke to see if anything kicks off.”

“And if not, the football might be a bit interesting as well.”

 

\--

 

Realistically, Jamie knew that all Premier League referees, regardless of experience, were fair game to be assigned the role of assistant at any time. But emotionally, he figured some kind of higher power –the FA, for example- was punishing him for an unknown crime. Otherwise he might have been assigned on the lines for someone he liked. There were plenty of referees that Jamie got on well with. But no, here he was, face to face with Gary Neville, resisting the urge to stab him with his flag.

(The enmity between him and Gary was one of the more brightly burning hatreds of Jamie’s life, and one that Stevie found hilarious.

“ _You’ve_ got rivalries,” Jamie had told him, annoyed at how Stevie didn’t seem to think that the problem of Gary Neville was quite a problem at all. “You don’t like plenty of people.”

“Yeah, because I spend ninety minutes a week getting kicked in by ‘em, don’t I? What has Gary Neville ever done to you?”

“Exist,” said Jamie darkly, and would hear no more about it.)

Gary had given Jamie a nasty look when he’d first come into the little dressing room at the Hawthorns, and then proceeded to ignore him outside of group addresses to the entire contingent of match officials. Jamie got the sense that the other linesman, a referee called David who he didn’t know very well, was finding the entire situation very amusing indeed. He didn’t care. It was, a small, irritatingly rational part of his brain pointed out, all a little bit embarrassing. But since Gary was half of it, it was only 50% embarrassing instead of 100%. And 50% embarrassing he could more than live with.

Asides from the cold shoulder Gary was as infinitely professional as Jamie would have expected. After all, Gary wasn’t a bad referee; he was just an annoying bastard.

And then, in the 75th minute, Gary made a call.

The thing was it wasn’t even a terribly controversial decision. It wasn’t a penalty, it wasn’t a red card, it wasn’t even a corner kick. It was a free kick a few yards out from the box, and any other day it would have been taken without a backward glance.

But for whatever reason: maybe the defender hadn’t slept well, or he had jammed his thumb against the pitch when he’d slid to take down the skinny striker he’d fouled, or he was just having a bad day and was looking to take it out on someone. Maybe he just didn’t like Gary Neville. Plenty of people didn’t.

Whatever the reason, Gary blew his whistle, brandished his yellow card, made the appropriate flourishes with the vanishing spray, and turned away from the wall assembling itself back to face the kicker.

And the defender for whatever reason of general malaise or temporary insanity, spat at his retreating back.

Jamie on the touchline had his flag up with a crack. If he had had a whistle he would have been shrieking on it, but the sharp snap of the flag was more than enough to catch Gary’s attention. He looked up. Jamie crooked a finger to him, gesturing. Behind Gary, the spitter was being furiously hissed at by one of his team mates in the wall.

And then of course it was a second yellow and a red, and it went into the report, and ITV got some good mileage out of it discussing the _state_ of the game when no one had any respect for referees anymore.

Gary pulled Jamie aside after the post-match convening of the officials. “Listen,” he said, “I wanted to say thank you.”

Jamie blinked. “For what?”

“For making that call. I wouldn’t have even noticed- I wouldn’t have known until the stills from the replays inevitably came out all over the internet.”

“He spat at you,” said Jamie, still bewildered. “I just called it as it was.”

“But you didn’t need to. I appreciate it.”

Jamie realised then where Gary was coming from, and felt suddenly quite aghast. “Of course I needed to. I- look, I may not like you very much and you may not like me, but that would never get in the way of me doing my job.”

It was only just then that Jamie _did_ feel embarrassed. Embarrassed that Gary had thought Jamie might have turned a blind eye to the offence, simply because they had been feuding in a way that seemed quite childish in the moment.

A similarly ashamed look had passed over Gary’s face. “Of course. I didn’t mean to imply you wouldn’t take your job seriously.”

Jamie took a deep breath “I know we’ve, erm, been at odds,” he began, and then stopped. Sighed. “Look. You’re a good referee, Gary. I respect you for that.” His name felt strange on Jamie’s tongue. Too round, somehow, for his sharp face and shoulders.

“You can rely on me in our capacity as officials. Always.” Jamie looked at Gary earnestly. “Of course I made the call.”

“Thank you,” said Gary again, his cheeks still flushed. The corner of his mouth lifted. “You had a good match. Jamie. You can add that to your tally.”

Jamie looked at him, surprised. The thing about their competition for decisions was that it had been almost accidental. Someone -probably Ed, because it was the kind of thing Ed found hilarious- had made a joke about Gary keeping track of how many correct calls Jamie was making so he could one-up him, and from there they had both actually started doing it, half annoyed that the joke had been made and half genuinely vying to be better than the other.

But it had always been unspoken, and certainly never referenced in terms of a score before, although Jamie had always been 90% certain that they’d both thought of it in that way already. Apparently so.

“Until next time, then,” Gary said. There was the odd sensation of truce in the air. Maybe they should shake hands or something, Jamie wondered, but was quite relieved when Gary didn’t try.

“So long as you have to run the lines.”

“Well,” Gary said, and it felt like a challenge again, “we’ll have to see.”

 

\--

 

“Jamie,” said Gary, a non-committal greeting. “Hi.”

“Hullo,” Jamie replied, cautiously. The fragile state of their relations these days meant he was never entirely certain where he stood with Gary. They hadn’t seen each other much since their match together, but they were apparently still on first name terms, which was a good sign.

Thankfully, Gary cleared it up for him. “I would think up something dismissive to say, but honestly, I’m just a bit too excited to be going to the _World Cup_.” He had started grinning half-way through the sentence and there was a note of barely restrained delight in his voice that was infectious. Jamie had never heard Gary sound so honestly excited before. He kind of liked it. After all, it was one of the few things they had in common: they both bloody loved football.

He let himself get pulled along, enjoying the moment. “The World Cup!”

“The World Cup!” They grinned at each other like idiots for a moment of mutual disbelief.

“Representing England on the international stage, we are,” said Jamie, self-importantly.

Gary laughed. “And probably far more respectably than the actual team, at that.”

“That’s not even an exaggeration,” Jamie said despairingly. “The line-up- when I saw we were taking five strikers and only one real midfielder of any quality-”

“Tell me about it,” said Gary, with great feeling.

And so Jamie did. Gary, he discovered, was excellent for a proper football discussion. Of course he was sharp, opinionated, and well-informed; Jamie had known as much from having to listen to Gary at badge renewals and Association events. But for the first time in many years of mutual acquaintance and dislike, Jamie found those traits to be positives rather than just more reasons that he would be going to his grave cursing Gary Neville’s very name.

They were forced to break in their conversation to listen to the FA officials give them the run-down on how they were to comport themselves with the utmost dignity and honesty, to be representatives of her Majesty and et cetera, et cetera, and also some slightly more important information such as where they would be staying in Mexico and how their transport would be arranged. And, most vitally of all, they were told in no uncertain terms that if they had good tournaments, and providing that England didn’t make it to those latter stages, they could expect to be assigned to the semi-finals or even the final in some capacity. Jamie had known that he was somewhere in the upper echelons of FIFA’s elite list referees, but never had such solid proof been laid before him. And he had never been so pleased that England had more or less a snowball’s chance in hell of making it that far in the Cup. He _did_ feel slightly bad about being pleased, but there it was. And to be in the pool for officiating the final!

To his surprise, Gary was the one who brought it up as they were leaving. “I know we were complaining about England,” he said, gathering up his coat and hat, “but is it really awful that I feel just a bit selfishly pleased that our chances of officiating the final are substantially higher than, say, some German ref’s?”

“Oh, unforgivable of you,” said Jamie seriously, trying to tamp down the grin threatening to break all over his face, “borderline treasonous. And when England crash out in the first knock-out round, I’ll fully blame you as we’re being handed the responsibility of refereeing the _actual World Cup final!”_

Grin suppression was a long-lost cause by that point. Jamie didn’t care. He grinned at Gary. Gary grinned back.

“Hey,” said Jamie as they pushed through the double glass doors of the FA’s large, probably mostly unnecessary building, “you fancy a pint?”

Gary actually flickered his eyes to the side, as if looking for someone else whom Jamie might more probably be addressing. “A pint?”

“Yeah, a pint. Alcohol, what grown-ups drink. Though if you prefer a glass of milk, Gary.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Gary good-naturedly. “Yeah, sure. You know a place?”

Jamie did know a place. What he did _not,_ was intend on getting drunk with Gary Neville. He had made the offer in the spirit of the moment: their joint good fortune in being FIFA-selected referees, going to the greatest sporting event on the planet, and the buoyant camaraderie that had sprung up between them. He’d thought, a drink, the continuation of their conversation, and then back to home and to normality. He had not intended on getting drunk with Gary Neville.

And yet.

“I bet,” said Gary, a distinctive flush on his pale cheeks, “that the stats for German referees in the latter stages of the World Cup are just _abysmal._ ”

Jamie nodded. “Downright embarrassing.”

“Terrible. Such a major European nation, wonderful football history, and yet their refs consistently fail to make it past the round of sixteen.”

“Full restructuring of their FA, only thing for it,” declared Jamie, taking a decisive gulp of pint number...oh, sod it, he’d lost track. “Maybe if Germany really alters their methods, they too can be knocked out at the first opportunity and get a ref in the final of a major international tournament.”

Gary nodded enthusiastically and raised his glass. “To Howard Webb- he went where no German has ever gone before. Probably. I don’t actually know the stats.”

They drank to Howard Webb.

“So many yellow cards,” murmured Jamie, still distraught at the memory. “Nightmare.”

Gary made a noise of assent. “You know,” he said, in a slightly less giggly tone that made Jamie look up from where he had been spinning a coaster, “you’re not too bad, Carragher. Even if you do support Liverpool.”

“I do not support Liverpool,” said Jamie automatically.

Gary rolled his eyes. “Yes you do. Everyone knows it. There’re those photos of you going mental in the stands at Istanbul. I’m not accusing you of anything- or well, I guess accusing anyone of supporting Liverpool is crime enough-”

“Oh, that’s rich, coming from you, you Manc bastard,” said Jamie, beginning to enjoy the turn in the conversation.

But Gary only nodded earnestly. “That’s the point! I do support United. I doubt you could find a genuinely neutral ref in the entire system. We just have to be more loyal to a grander ideal.”

“How poetic,” snorted Jamie, “but we’ve got to be more than just idealistic, we’ve got to be un-fucking-touchable, Gary. So untouchable, wouldn’t you say, that it’s like we’ve got no clubs at all? Isn’t having a club only worth it so far as you can yell about it?” He searched around for an appropriate metaphor. “Trees, forests. Falling trees. Or, no, we’re like, we’re like Queen Victoria.”

“Queen Victoria.” Gary raised a sceptical eyebrow.

“Yeah,” said Jamie, warming to his theme, “Queen Victoria. She gave up sex so that she could have power, or whatever-”

“No, no, no,” Gary interrupted, “that wasn’t Queen Victoria, idiot. That was Queen Elizabeth.”

“Queen Elizabeth- the _Queen_?” Jamie’s eyes widened in shock. “The Queen’s given up sex?”

“Queen Elizabeth the First, Jamie. The Queen hasn’t given up sex. So far I know. Or actually, I don’t want to think about it.”

“Me neither.” They took a momentary pause to aggressively not think about the Queen having sex. “But anyway,” Jamie continued when the images had thankfully passed, “whichever queen it was. She gave up sex so that she could seem all heavenly and divine and that. We’ve given up our clubs so we can be above the rivalry and winning and losing and whatever.”

“So what you’re saying,” said Gary, “is that supporting a football club is like having sex?”

“Yes! Wait, no.” Jamie considered. “Maybe. There are certain similarities.”

Gary gave an exaggerated sigh. “So we’re not getting any. And we’re not even the Queen.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jamie leered. “No girlfriend, Gary? No lovely lady waiting for you up in Manchester, lounging on your United bedspread, wearing nothing but a Beckham kit?”

“Oh, shut up,” Gary said, taking a swipe at Jamie before tipping back the last of his drink.

“No boyfriend?”

Gary choked slightly and lowered his glass, coughing. Jamie watched him with interest. “No,” said Gary finally, when he’d regained the use of his airway, “no boyfriend. And before you ask, no friends with benefits or whatever it is people do.”

Jamie shrugged. “Guess you’re not spending time with the right people, then.”

“And who is the right people?” Gary scoffed. “You?”

“Maybe.” They were treading dangerously close to flirting but Jamie found he didn’t mind. It was nice, actually.

They stared at each other across the table, weighing the situation.

“Okay,” Jamie declared, “I’ve made up my mind.”

Gary blinked, looking slightly alarmed. “About what?”

“You’re not too bad either, Neville. Even if you do support Manchester United.”

Gary let out a small breath that Jamie hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “Fuck off,” he said with a laugh, and ordered them another round.

 

\--

 

“Any other news, Jack? Or should we wrap this up and let our listeners get back to their lives?”

“You mean our _listener,_ Redders. We’ve only got one, and we both know your mum only tunes in to make sure you don’t say any curse words. But yes, we do have other news- it’s back to our referee chat, everyone’s favourite chat, because we’re getting to that most wonderful time of every-four-years and the FA has released that England will be sending Jamie Carragher and Gary Neville to the World Cup in Mexico this summer.”

“Our best and brightest. But like, I hope that the FA has booked them on separate flights. ‘Cause we all know how those two get on like a house on fire. Lots of burning and screaming.”

“You know, since it’s the FA, I can almost guarantee that they’ll not only be on the same flight, but also like, booked sat right next to each other. It’s what, six, seven hours to Mexico? I hope they have Keys and Gray in reserve in case Carragher and Neville kill each other.”

“That would literally be the greatest loss to English football since Pickles the Dog died.”

“Truly. Alright, go off and be free now, Mrs. Redknapp. Also, can you please send Jamie in next week with an extra packed lunch? They always look so nice and I am so hungry.”

“How old are you? Make your own packed lunch. I do this myself. Christ, no wonder no one listens to this show.”

 

\--

 

Someone at the FA –and Jamie didn’t know who, but if he ever found out he would be giving them an almighty bollocking- had thought it a lovely idea to seat him and Gary next to each other on the flight over the Atlantic to Mexico City. No private jet for referees: they were stuck right in the middle of a commercial flight by someone who hadn’t gotten the memo that they disliked each other. The culprit had even gone so far as to book the third seat in between them, so that no unsuspecting passenger could come and act as an impromptu DMZ for the duration of the flight.

True, Jamie’s previously raging ire against all that Gary Neville was and stood for had receded somewhat, and they _had_ had a genuinely nice time in the pub after their meeting with the FA. But that had been a highly unusual set of circumstances and some months ago besides. Since then, Manchester City had wrapped up the title, the FA Cup had been inexplicably won by Hartlepool United, who had been relegated from League One just weeks before, and no English team had managed to get anywhere near the Champion’s League final. Asides from Hartlepool’s victory (although the final match _had_ been a tepid affair against Southampton, wherein Jamie had been on the lines and struggling not to fall asleep) it had been a fairly predictable season.

If Jamie was to be honest, he was a little bit concerned that the trip with Gary might go from awkward to downright hostile. After so many years of dislike a few hours of borderline flirting was more of an anomaly than a real trend change, and there was a marked difference between football chat in a pub and a six hour plane journey. You couldn’t get drunk on a plane, for one. Or you could, but it was generally frowned upon. Which was a shame, because drunk Gary had been funny and smart and even moderately to very attractive. He had liked Gary in that pub, as strange the thought might be. And, Jamie thought grimly, sticking an extra tube of sunscreen into his bag and zipping it firmly shut, he was quite certain that Gary had liked him, too.

 

\--

 

He arrived at the airport a bit late and got to the appropriate gate as the plane had already begun boarding. He didn’t see Gary about the hustle and bustle but Jamie wasn’t really looking, more concentrated on tamping down the instinctive ‘nearly missed the flight’ panic.

When he did make it on to the plane, Gary was already there in their row.

“Hi,” Jamie said, waiting.

Gary’s head bobbed up from his phone, looking slightly spooked for a moment. Jamie wondered if he’d forgotten that they would be travelling together. Or maybe he’d forcibly blocked the memory.

“Hi,” said Gary.

They looked at each other.

“You’ve got the window seat,” said Jamie, helpfully. “Want to shift over so I can stop blocking the others?”

“Oh,” said Gary, and looked somewhat sheepish for some reason. “If it’s alright by you, I prefer the aisle. Can we swap?”

“Are you _willingly_ giving up the window?” Jamie asked, flabbergasted, stepping close to Gary to allow a few people behind him to squeeze past.

“I like the aisle.” Gary’s face was a few inches away from the button on Jamie’s jeans. Jamie tried not to think about it.

The parade of people going by let up, and Jamie quickly stepped back. The angle of Gary looking up at him had been unexpectedly wired to a less-than-appropriate part of Jamie’s brain and it was going to be a long flight already without those sorts of images floating about his head. “Go on then,” he said, and Gary stood up to let Jamie cram himself into the window seat.

“Thanks,” said Gary, sitting back down.

Jamie shrugged. “I like the window better anyway. Was a bit put out when I saw you’d got it on the ticket.” He busied himself pulling out his phone and book from his carry-on bag.

“So,” Gary said, turning to Jamie once they’d both settled, “Hartlepool, yeah? I saw you struggling to keep your eyes open. Great result for the club but what an absolute yawn of a match!”

As it turned out, Gary wasn’t only funny and smart when he was drunk. Jamie wondered, half an hour into a discussion about the various World Cup groups and their merits, how he hadn’t noticed it before. But then again, they had never really spoken, and Jamie could distinctly remember Gary being a know-it-all prat during their referee training courses. In the intervening years something must have changed dramatically.

Even worse, Gary wasn’t only moderately to very attractive when he was drunk.

Years and years ago, when they had first run at odds to each other in that ill-fated information session in Liverpool, Gary had been scrawny and almost palpably furious, furious even before Jamie had opened his mouth.

Looking at Gary now across the seat between them, he looked good. He had put on weight, filled out the sharp angles of his bones. His eyes as well had lost the glint of near-violence that Jamie could remember. They still held the same intensity, but of a brighter variety that seemed less likely to shatter into anger at any moment. Gary was softer, somehow, but not blurred. It suited him.

Jamie had expected to have to run the gauntlet of whatever films the in-flight entertainment system had to offer, but in the end he only watched a handful of episodes of some American crime drama while Gary napped (“I‘m going under,” he had said, waggling the complimentary eye mask at Jamie, which had made Jamie actually, honestly laugh out loud) and spent the rest of the time talking: about football (excellent), the news (abysmal), about the airplane dinners they were served (palatable). His voice was going to quite hoarse by the time they landed. It was difficult to talk to _anyone_ for hours on end, but maybe here they had the advantage of having known each other for a long time but having never exchanged more than a few angry words. There was a lot of material to go through.

Maybe he’d been missing out on years of this. Or maybe now was just the right time. Either way, when they did touch down, Jamie was downright pleased that FIFA needed them both in Mexico City for a couple of days with the other referees for a whirlwind of bureaucratic shuffling about before they would be flown out to various cities across the country for the first round.

They had to attend a series of frankly dull meetings which told them a variety of brand-new information such as ‘the impartiality of a referee must be absolute and unimpugnable’. Jamie thought it rather rich, being lectured on incorruptibility by a FIFA employee, although since he himself was currently also a FIFA employee there wasn’t much he could say about it. He cheered himself up at the thought that he could at least tell Gary the joke after the meeting, and then experienced a strange, bemused sort of shock at the idea. Gary had been an object of ire and then active rivalry for so long, and now he was something of a friend. Or at the very least, not somebody that Jamie despised. It was a bizarre realisation to come to in the middle of a room full of referees, being talked at by a suit who had used Office ’95 to make the powerpoint he was showing them, and Jamie lost a chunk of what was being said before he came back to it.

Gary had been sitting a few rows in front of Jamie (the swot, Jamie thought with a resigned sort of fondness) and was waiting for him outside the door when they were at long last released.

Jamie was feeling beset by mild concerns over the trajectory of his burgeoning friendship with Gary, but here he was, smiling and rolling his eyes and saying, “well that was a misery, wasn’t it?” and oh, what the hell. Jamie could be muddled up about this later.

Wasn’t it just?” he said with a groan. “There’s something about being lectured on cheating by a FIFA rep that just rubs me the wrong way. Can’t quite put my finger on why. Any ideas?”

And Gary laughed.

 

\--

 

The next day Jamie had to fly out for his first match. Gary was staying in Mexico City, and Jamie stopped by his hotel room before he left for the airport.

Gary opened the door at his knock, and looked genuinely pleased to see Jamie there. “You off, then.”

“Yeah. To León, and then Toluca for the second round.”

“It’s really kicking off. No pun intended. I’m here and then Guadalajara.”

“Lucky, you’ve got the Azteca. Take pictures.”

Gary stuck out a hand. “Guess I’ll see you back here before the knock-outs, then.”

Jamie took the proffered handshake. “I’ll see you then.” He released Gary’s hand and gave him an only-slightly awkward wave, stepping back from the door.

“Oh, and Jamie?”

Jamie paused. “Yeah?”

Gary grinned, all white teeth and undiluted delight. “Have a good World Cup.”

A bubble of giddy excitement swelled up in Jamie’s stomach. _The World Cup._ “You too, Gary,” he said. “You have a good World Cup, too.”

 

\--

 

Jamie officiated two matches in the group stages, but he felt he could easily have done ten. The pressure was tremendous but absolutely, utterly thrilling. It helped that his games had been fast-paced, exciting affairs, and the atmosphere in the stadiums had been electric. The opening week of the World Cup, under the beaming Mexican sun, and everyone was more or less off their heads with sheer bloody happiness. It would have been a real chore of it _not_ to be infected by the songs, chants, and anticipatory joy of the crowds, and Jamie had had two excellent games.

He flew back into Mexico City after his final match of the group stage, to reconvene with the other officials over the short break before the knock out stages were to begin. It was just an added bonus that England had put on a highly respectable performance and finished atop their group, playing some nice, comforting football that Jamie had enjoyed watching after the fact on his laptop.

He didn’t see Gary until the morning after flying in, at the brunch buffet provided for the officials to accompany a few words from the head of the FIFA Referees’ Association. Jamie came down to the large function room and found Gary among the crowd, piling up a plate with small sandwiches.

“Now now, Gary,” said Jamie in his ear, coming up behind him, “you still have a few matches to run around in, you know. England’s brave lions shouldn’t be eating all that.”

Gary startled a good few inches in the air, and then fixed Jamie with a reproachful look.

Jamie smirked and picked up a plate.

“When did you get in?” Gary asked, still giving Jamie an aggrieved frown but adding another sandwich to his collection nonetheless.

“Last night. You?”

“Just this morning. And,” Gary added, wounded, “I didn’t have time to eat breakfast, so I’ll thank you to show a little compassion.’

“Yeah, alright,” Jamie laughed. “C’mon. Let’s find a table.”

“So?” Gary asked once they’d sat down, tucking into a ham and cheese variety, “how were your matches? I couldn’t watch, but the papers haven’t published anything about you bringing shame to the nation so you can’t have come off too badly.”

“I think I managed to avoid that,” said Jamie, amused. “I didn’t catch yours either. Though-” he suddenly remembered, “there was a penalty, wasn’t there? You called a penalty?”

“Correctly called a penalty,” said Gary, automatically defensive in a way that Jamie understood very well indeed. “And yes. Against Japan.”

“Guess we’ll have to add that to your score, then.”

 “Yes. And double points.”

“What!?”

“Double points for the World Cup.” Gary blinked at him innocently. “You’d best step up your game, Carragher.”

“You’re a cheat, Gary Neville.”

“Me? Never.” Gary grinned, and took another bite of sandwich.

The room was beginning to clear out and Jamie glanced at his watch. It was only just past noon and they weren’t needed until that evening to be given their assigned matches in the next round. He cleared his throat. “You got any plans for the day?”

Gary shrugged. “Bit of sightseeing, I suppose. Can’t go too far but I’d like to get out and about a bit.”

“You wouldn’t- would you mind if I came with you? I mean,” Jamie added hurriedly, “if you prefer not. I just was thinking I’d do more or less the same, but if-”

“No, I’d like you to come along,” Gary interrupted. “Very much so.”

“I speak a bit of Spanish,” Jamie added, helpfully.

“Good, ‘cause I don’t speak a word. Let me have ten minutes to fetch some stuff from my room? Meet back in the lobby?”

“Yeah, good. Great.” Jamie felt weirdly relieved. Like Gary had accepted his friend request or something equally stupid. “Great.”

If their shoulders brushed on the way out, neither mentioned it. But Jamie went back to his room and applied a layer of sunscreen with a rather cheerier air than usual.

 

\--

 

They only just made it back to the hotel in time for that evening’s meeting. The warmth of the day had lingered long after the sun had gone down and they had dawdled on the way back, enjoying the balmy air without the glare of daylight and admiring the multitudes of flags draping nearly every building they’d passed. It had been a very pleasant day of tourism.

As it was, they slipped into the large room where the meeting was being held just as the presiding FIFA suit was preparing to speak, feeling rather like schoolboys cutting it close to class.  They were talked at for a time and then distributed envelopes containing their assignments and sent off.

Gary’s hotel room was on the third floor and Jamie’s on the fourth, and Jamie got off the lift with Gary without really thinking about it. But Gary didn’t say anything and so he followed after him, chatting, until Gary had closed the door to the room and they both ripped into their envelopes with gusto.

“Ivory Coast-Croatia, oh, _brilliant,_ ” Gary read out with relish. “Head referee, too. That’s going to be a battle. But, thank god, not a quick one. Not like the Japan game. Christ did they _run_.”

“Told you to cut back on the sandwiches- oh, I’m lining Mexico-Spain! Now that’s a _match._ ”

“Have fun keeping an eye on the offside. You know how that Spanish team loves to hang about up top. Remember during the Euros-”

“Do I! Poor lino looked like his arm was about to fall off. Cheers, I’ll wear an elbow brace.”

“God I love the World Cup,” said Gary, happily. “Fucking brilliant.”

Sometime over the course of the next hour he produced a bottle of wine -“where’d you get that?” Jamie asked, amazed, and Gary just winked- and they decided that a glass wouldn’t hurt. Or two. Neither of them had matches for a few days, and a single bottle between the two of them was hardly likely to put anyone out of commission. Or so Gary rationalised in between sips, talking more to himself than to Jamie.

“Technically, we are drinking on the job,” said Jamie, rather delightedly. “Y’know, Gary, I never thought you the type.”

“Oh god, I very much wasn’t the type when we met,” Gary snorted. “Though when we met I think that would have been the least of the issues.”

Jamie snickered. “You were an all-around knobhead.”

“And you were a bellend of the highest order.”

“And here we are,” said Jamie with a grand gesture. “You have voluntarily offered me wine, and this morning we broke bread together, in sandwich form. So, in the sort of classical sense, that makes us friends.”

There was momentary pause while they both considered the proposition.

“Huh,” said Gary, eloquently, “I suppose I can live with that.”

“What a relief to hear,” said Jamie dryly.

Gary gave him a light punch on the shoulder. “Be grateful I’m giving you that much. Seem to recall you once saying that Manchester was- what, a ‘footballing backwater’? Is that what you said?”

Jamie nodded proudly. “Words that I stand by to the day. You were none too polite, yourself, talking about Liverpool as if it was the arse-end of the Earth.”

“Oh come on, you took it so seriously! I had just travelled an hour, I was only about twenty, I was being a tit.”

“So was I!’

“Alright, we were both young and we were both being tits,” said Gary decisively. “In any case it’s- oh, Christ, it’s got to be fifteen years ago, now.”

It was a harrowing thought.

“Why did you want to be a referee anyway, in the first place?” Jamie asked, to escape the concerning reminder of how his fortieth birthday was lurking around the corner. “I was there because my mate- actually, I can name drop him, it’s Steven Gerrard- ‘cause Stevie wanted me to. So we could both be working in football, see. So I went to keep him happy, and the thought it might be a good way to pick up some extra money, stay in shape, all that. But why were you there? You’re all executive, with your land development and whatever. You’re not exactly looking for a job. Why’d you want to be a referee?”

Gary shifted on the bed where they were sitting to lean more comfortably against the headboard. “Well that’s the thing,” he said, slowly, “I don’t want to be a referee.”

Jamie’s eyebrows rose. “Hate to break it to you, mate, but you’re at the World Cup, as a referee. If you don’t want to ref, you’re doing a bang up job of pretending you do.”

“Okay, okay,” Gary laughed, “I do _now_. But back then, I hated it. So at that initial information whatever-it-was, I guess I wasn’t only being a tit, but I was madder than a cat in a thunderstorm to be there at all.”

“What, was someone holding your family hostage if you didn’t become a ref? It’s a voluntary position, Gary, really.”

“I wanted to be a footballer.”

“Yeah, so did I. And about every other kid I’ve ever known.”

“No, Jamie.” Gary shook his head. “Listen. I _wanted_ to be a _footballer_. Not the kind of ‘oh, what do you want to do when you grow up little boy’ kind of obvious answer. I wanted to be a footballer with every bit of me that even knew what wanting was. I was at the United youth academy for a few glorious years, and it was the happiest I’d ever been. And then, I went through the trials, and they told me I just wasn’t good enough.”

Gary fell silent and Jamie didn’t dare interrupt. There was a very real sense of unbottling in the air, Gary’s breath all rushing out at once. “But I still wanted- I didn’t go for any trials at any other clubs, because it was always going to be United, the be all and end all, and I guess I was young and stupid and didn’t even want to go a bit of a roundabout way to it. It was United or nothing, but nothing wasn’t an option either.” Gary looked up to meet Jamie’s waiting gaze. “Like your mate Stevie wanted for you, I s’ppose. So I got into refereeing and god, I hated it. To be so close, on the actual pitch, but not _there,_ not playing. Oh, thanks.” Jamie had reached over with the bottle and refilled the little glass nicked out of the bathroom that Gary was drinking from.

“I was very angry for a very long time,” Gary admitted finally. “It was more than all I wanted, it was all that I _was_ , y’know? And to be told I wasn’t good enough.” He made a face, and Jamie could fill in the rest of the sentence. He thought he knew Gary well enough by now to know that ‘not good enough’ would have buried its way under Gary’s skin and simmered there, year after year, until it reached boiling point.

“But you know, somewhere in between, all that time, getting my professional badge, I realised I really do enjoy being a referee. I love this job. It took a shocking long time to come round to, I know. Phil says I’m emotionally repressed and it’s unhealthy for me not to know my own mind, or something like that.”

“Phil?”

“My brother,” Gary clarified. “Younger. Also completely football-mad. He’s a bit of a health nut, though. I live in fear of the day I go round to his place to find he’s bought a load of healing crystals or whatever.”

Jamie huffed out a laugh. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “and I dunno. Might not be much. But I’m glad you did come round to it. Would have been utterly miserable for you otherwise, and you’d probably have been even more of a tosser than you already are, and I would still hate you. And we wouldn’t be here, together at the World Cup.” He shrugged, a bit self-conscious and trying not to be. “Like I said, it might not mean too much, but I’m, y’know, I prefer it this way.”

“That means quite a lot, actually,” said Gary quietly. “Thank you.”

Continental drift is a long, slow process. Geography never takes kindly to being altered and protests the whole way. So Jamie and Gary sat quietly as the borders and mountains and seas rearranged themselves into the new landscape that had been softly building about them, until Jamie shivered and Gary got up to close the sliding balcony door they had opened to tempt in the night air.

Gary moving broke some of the spell that had settled, and Jamie stood as well. “Ought to be off to bed. Let you get some sleep.”

“Yes,” said Gary, sounding- did he sound put out? Jamie couldn’t parse it. “It is getting on a bit.”

Jamie got as far as the door before thinking, _oh, bollocks,_ and turning around again. “Gary-”

“-yes?” Gary had followed him and was a few inches behind. His eyes were very brown. Beautiful. Gary had beautiful eyes.

Jamie kissed him.

Not particularly elegantly and not particularly impressively: he was more concentrated on his goal of getting his mouth on Gary’s than any sort of style, but Gary made a small noise like a surprised sigh that shot right down Jamie’s spine, before grabbing a handful of Jamie’s shirt and dragging him closer.

 _Fuck,_ Jamie didn’t say because his mouth was otherwise occupied but he very much thought it, and pushed Gary back from the door towards the bed. The kiss was rapidly devolving into fumbling, and Gary let himself fall back against the pillows, Jamie toppling over with him.

The thought of kissing Gary had been an impulse that had been immediately proved correct, and now that he had done it Jamie was discovering a whole range of things he wanted to do to Gary, and quite a few more that he wanted Gary to do to him. Some of them required that he stop kissing Gary to use his mouth in other ways, which was shame, but he thought they could probably find the time to fit everything in. The pun fully intended.

“Jamie,” Gary said, his voice a low keen, “ _Jamie.”_

“What,” Jamie mumbled against Gary’s neck, his fingers everywhere, trying to touch Gary all over.

“It’s the World Cup, Jamie.”

“I know, isn’t it grand.” Gary’s skin was soft and pliant, and Jamie just wanted to sink into him. “Can’t you just let me kiss you in peace?”

“No, it’s the _World Cup._ ” Gary made a half-hearted attempt to push Jamie off, and Jamie looked up at him, aggrieved. “We have to stay focused.”

Jamie grinned wickedly. “What, are you saying that if I put your cock in my mouth, you won’t be able to get it out of your head even three days later? Y’know, Gary, I was going to call you a prude but now I’m just flattered.”

“Shut _up,_ ” Gary groaned, and Jamie could feel him shiver.

“I want to suck you off,” Jamie said, his voice low against Gary’s collarbone. “Want to have you all over this bed, and then I want to fuck you until you can’t think straight. I want, I want-”

“And I remember when you didn’t like me,” Gary said breathlessly, tightening the twist of his fingers in Jamie’s shirt.

“I told you I changed my mind.” The button on Gary’s trousers was being uncooperative. Jamie cursed quietly, fumbling.

“Your incompetence is unbelievable,” said Gary, unmistakably fond. He pushed Jamie aside and undid the button himself, sliding his trousers down to his thighs.

Jamie glanced at him, imagining that he might either look seductive or stupid as he was, half-kneeling over Gary’s middle with his shirt all rumpled where Gary had been gripping it. Either way it seemed to be working. There was a gorgeous flush all over Gary’s cheeks and his hair was mussed, curling around his ears in a way that Jamie was finding very attractive indeed. Christ, but Gary was really quite fit, once you got past the whole cross-looking-Manc-with-control-issues thing. “And you’ve changed your mind as well, then?”

Gary sat himself up to grab Jamie’s chin and kiss him, hard, his nose scrunched up against Jamie’s cheek. “I was the one who said it first, wasn’t I? You’re not too bad, Jamie Carragher.” He let his thumb trail along the line of Jamie’s jaw. “I do fancy you. This isn’t some random occurrence.”

Jamie watched him, fascinated and a little bit hopelessly enamoured. How the hell had this become his life, all of a sudden. He cleared his throat. “That’s terribly romantic of you, Gary, but I was talking about if you’d changed your mind about the blowjob.”

“Oh!” Gary went an even more delightful shade of red. Jamie started laughing at him. “Fuck off- yes, oh, for god’s sake-”

He didn’t get the chance to finish the disparagement because Jamie took that moment to slide the rest of the way down between Gary’s legs, and Gary lost coherency for a time.

 

Afterwards, once they had both regained more or less the normal function of all their limbs, Jamie reluctantly dragged himself off the bed.

“Brush your teeth before you go to sleep, you lazy bastard,” he told Gary, sternly. “And get into your pyjamas or you’ll wake up with strange lines.” Gary made an indistinct noise of assent from where he was buried into a pillow, already half-asleep. Jamie rolled his eyes.

“Hey,” he said more quietly, bending down.

Gary cracked open an eye and gave Jamie a sleepy smile. “Wha’s‘at?”

“I fancy you, as well.”

He left Gary blushing furiously in a cocoon of blankets, feeling warm and fuzzy and more than a little bit pleased with himself.

 

\--

 

“Well, it’s that time of year again when England are eliminated from international competition. Jack? Thoughts? Feelings?”

“It came a bit later this time than usual. Quarters! Not as embarrassing as it has been in the past, so. And it’s been a brilliant tournament so far. I‘m feeling unusually cheerful.”

“You have a point there. Though everyone knows a good half of your enjoyment this year came from watching Thierry Henry doing analysis on the telly. Gone through a lot of socks this summer, have you?”

“Redders!!”

“Ohh my god your _face_ right now- you’ve gone all blotchy! It was a joke but now I think you might genuinely be- well, he does look good in those suits- oh _h_ nope, you’re gonna have to be quicker than that to hit me, c’mon.”

“You’re so full of it, Redknapp. Get back to the football before I tell the listeners about your erotic dreams featuring John Barnes.”

“Nothing erotic about them. In my dreams John Barnes is always a lovely bloke, and nothing but respectful.”

“You’re shameless.”

“I’m not the one wanking off to Thierry Henry.”

“I do not wank off to Thierry Henry!”

“And on that bombshell- !”

 

\--

 

“We also have an excellent update on the England situation –I know! An update on England! And you all thought England were done and dusted. But Gary Neville is going to be the referee for the semi final between Poland and Argentina, which is gonna be a cracker, by the way, so we haven’t gone home yet! Not really!”

 

\--

 

“It’s strange to be back home,” Jamie complained. “I miss the sun. I’ve never missed the sun before.”

“You shouldn’t have gone to Mexico for a month,” said Stevie. “Stop whinging. I didn’t even get to go anywhere!”

“No one told you to retire,” said Jamie mournfully. “In fact, I remember telling you the exact opposite. Many times over.”

“What’s done is done. It was a good tournament, though. England looked good. Next time for sure.”

“Oh, of course. Next time.” They shared a laugh that was only mostly, but not entirely, bitter.

Since Jamie hadn’t been assigned any matches after the quarter finals, he had stayed in Mexico for another week on his own budget to see the final and then come back to England. Gary had done the same with the exception of having a semi final match given to him, and they had watched the final together, which had been a fiery affair (with a free kick that most certainly should have been a yellow card. Jamie thought with a sniff that he could have done better.) followed by a good few hours in a bar amidst the crowds.

The wonderful thing about being a referee was that out of the context of a bright yellow shirt and a whistle, hardly anyone had ever recognised Jamie, and he and Gary could drink to their hearts’ content without being disturbed. Jamie had harboured some worries about lingering awkwardness after they had essentially slept together, but asides from Gary’s ears going an entertaining shade of red when he had spotted Jamie outside the Azteca for the first time in their joint brave new world, nothing much had changed.

But now he hadn’t seen Gary in a few weeks, the two of them having retreated to their respective haunts in Liverpool and Manchester, and the league season still being some time away.

Jamie hadn’t exactly _told_ Stevie about his extracurricular Neville-related activities in Mexico because he wasn’t quite ready for the barrage of mockery that he would receive, having had complained about Gary more times than either of them could count, but he had the sneaking suspicion that Stevie knew something was afoot. The detente between him and Gary hadn’t gone unnoticed and Jamie wondered if Stevie was restraining himself out of some newfound sensitivity or was just waiting to collect further evidence before he smacked Jamie with the inevitable tide of jokes.

And Jamie didn’t miss Gary, not per say. He didn’t think he really knew Gary well enough yet to properly miss him: after all, they’d been sort-of friendly for only a little while and even getting someone off after some really good kissing did not a relationship make. Jamie didn’t miss Gary.

But he did wonder when he was going to see him again.

 

\--

 

As it happened, Jamie didn’t see Gary. Gary saw him.

Jamie was squinting at his phone, trying to find where in the email sent by the Referees’ Association it said which function room of the FA’s London building they were in for the pre-season meeting. He wasn’t late but he wasn’t particularly early either, so when he located the room and slipped in at the back, scanning across the seats and the crowd of people –some referees he already knew, some newer faces for the new season- he was disappointed that he couldn’t spot Gary. Jamie had figured that Gary would have been the first person to come in and sit down. He had been every other season they’d been refereeing together. But the familiar, carefully combed head of black hair was nowhere in sight.

Jamie was beginning to wonder if Gary was ill (worrying, because feeling poorly wouldn’t have stopped Gary from showing up right on time for the pre-season meeting anyway, so if Gary _was_ suffering from health issues he was potentially on the very verge of death) when the meeting ended, and as he was heading out the door, casting another glance about in vain, he was seized at the elbow and dragged forcibly down the corridor.

“Gary! Where did you come from? I was looking about for you,” Jamie began, letting himself be pulled along by Gary until they’d turned a corner away from the gaggle of officials spilling gratefully out of the conference room. “Couldn’t see you in there but I knew you weren’t about to miss it- hey, where’re we going?”

Where they were going was apparently a door labelled CUSTODIAL USE ONLY, which Gary had open before Jamie could ask again and was shoving him inside.

It was a testament to Gary’s attention to detail that he flicked on the light switch before pushing Jamie up against the door and kissing him ferociously, his mouth open and wet against Jamie’s, his fingers curling into one of Jamie’s belt loops.

“Fuck- fucking hell, Gary,” gasped Jamie, entirely caught off guard and going from _pleasantly surprised_ to _violently turned on_ so quickly he nearly got whiplash, “oh _Jesus_ , no, no don’t stop, yeah, okay, hello-”

“You didn’t call,” accused Gary, voice a little out of breath as he pulled away. “I haven’t heard from you since Mexico, you arse.”

“You never gave me your number!”

“We work for the same organisation; you could have easily looked it up!”

“You could have done the same! How come you didn’t ring me?”

Gary didn’t appear to have a good answer to that so he just rolled his eyes instead. “How about you shut up and kiss me before I decide it’s less hassle to just going back to hating your guts, Carragher?”

“I dunno,” said Jamie, “now that you mention it, I _am_ offended you didn’t call. I thought we had something special, I said I fancied you, that’s practically a proposal-”

He was cut off by Gary taking the initiative and kissing him exasperatedly. Jamie would have thought that a kiss couldn’t be exasperated, but Gary was definitely managing it. And exasperated or not, it was a good kiss.

“Either come back round to mine _now,_ ” Gary said, low in Jamie’s ear, “or you’re going to have to live the rest of your days with the fact that the best sex of your life was had in a broom cupboard at the FA’s headquarters.”

Jamie’s brain briefly short-circuited. “Best sex of my life?” he managed to get out, throat dry, “Is that a promise?”

Gary grinned at him then, and in the dim lighting of the cupboard he looked suddenly, devastatingly handsome. Jamie could feel his heart jump up high in his chest at the sight, a terrible twinge that was probably a worrying sign of things to come. Things like being stuck with Gary Neville for quite a long time, and not minding it much, either. “Well,” said Gary, his eyes sparkling, “you’ll just have to be the judge of that yourself, won’t you?”

 

\--

 

 “I’m glad, sorta, that neither of us became footballers,” said Gary sleepily, much later that evening, his fingers playing with Jamie’s hair. “We’d probably have ended up brawling on the pitch at some point, and we’d have never gotten to like each other.”

“Who’s been saying that I like you now? ‘Cause they’re a bloody liar,” Jamie yawned, nuzzling closer and dropping a few lazy kisses on Gary’s stomach, wherever he could reach without having to move too much. “Who knows. I think we would’ve got there. Even if you did wind up giving me a kicking once or twice.”

“Mm. Optimistic.”

“You never know. Football’s weird.”

“But brilliant, Jamie.”

“Oh, definitely,” Jamie agreed, wriggling up on the bed to kiss Gary properly. “Absolutely fucking _brilliant_.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> For interest, England has had four final refs and Germany only one. But Italy's had three and Brazil and France two, so the nationality of refs in the final isn't actually the most accurate metric of football success. Between that and trying to accurately name the various league tiers for the years in which I roughly set the story, this fic had some of the most complicated and pointless football research I've ever done. When I started writing I expected none of that, since I was a youth/junior referee for about six years and thought I was simply going to be writing what I knew. That's never the way it turns out, is it?
> 
> Otherwise, things are more or less accurate, except I just made up everything about what the refs were doing/how they got match assignments at the World Cup. If any FIFA refs are reading this and want to tell me how it actually works, please do and I will alter events accordingly. #tellmeyourreffysecrets


End file.
